Awaken to Burn
by Ellstra
Summary: Sherlock and Khan are twins who love each other. Then Khan is taken away to become a member of a top-secret programme and Sherlock is left alone to fight his way into world. Without Khan's guidance, he struggles but when he moves into a flat with John Watson, everything might be okay. Until he finds out Khan is very much alive and wants Sherlock to go where no man has gone before.
1. Prologue

_**My first crossover story! Yay! I'm so excited about writing this. I planned to write longer summary, but it turned out okay as it is. **_

_**I just wanted to warn you, as it didn't fit into the summary, this is not rated M for sex. I don't say there won't be any (don't worry about that), but I decided for this rating because I plan this story to be angsty. I don't promise anything about end of this story; I just say there will be several moments of depression, break-downs, drug abuses and suicide thoughts (and attempts). **_

_**Anyway, enjoy the story!**_

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Two tall boys walked around on a river bank. One of them was pointing on something in the air, the other wasn't really paying attention to what the former was saying. He knew what was going to happen to him and yet he couldn't say a word, it was too risky. He feared they could come back and hurt everybody he loved. Every single person he cared for, all those innocent, naïve people who believed nothing could happen to them.

And the most naive, his small brother. It didn't matter he was only few minutes younger, he had always been a little brother for him. He was so clever, so intelligent he could see through everybody, he could understand how cruel the world was and yet it never occured to him that something might happen to him. Maybe he relied on the fact that people would get scared of him – he would immediately know who did it, right? – but everytime he solved a crime, every single time, he said ‚Poor people who have to risk so much.' As if he was an exception, as if he was excluded.

_My dear, dearest brother, you're not. And you're gonna find out too soon. You're too feeble to stand it, too young and innocent to live without guidance. I am so sorry you have to go through this for me. But there is no other way. You'll understand one day._

He felt his eyes filling with tears. How was he supposed to remain silent, how could he not scream and shout out aloud? He wanted to screech, to run away, to cry or to take his brother into his arms and never let him go. His body yearned for it, it felt necessary, essential even, and yet he couldn't. He had to protect his little brother, his most precious person, his light in the darkness.

His little brother… So intelligent, so able to take care of himself in many ways and yet defenceless as a toddler. His big, bright eyes were intelligent, but childish. Everything about the boy was childish. He was so different. While he was a warrior, sportsman, fighter, his brother was a smart guy who knew everything about everybody, but didn't know how to kick a ball. They were a perfect team, they needed each other.

And now they were to be separated. It filled his heart with hatred towards the people who wanted to do this to him. He wanted to snap neck of every single person who wanted to tear him from his best friend. He would never get to see him grow up, go to university, get married. How much he wanted to give up everything for his brother!

And yet he couldn't. He begged, pleaded, cried, threatened but they didn't take their word back. They wanted him while his brother would be left alone in the cruel, cold world; lost in the night, unable to struggle and fight. He knew that there was no way of saving the boy. Either way, the boy he knew and loved will disappear. There will be nobody to protect him from the cruelty of the world, there will be nobody wrapping him in his arms, nobody soothing, cooking tea, whispering silent words of comfort when he couldn't sleep. No, his brother would be left alone and nothing would be as it was.

He tried to fight the tears, because of him. He wasn't allowed to explain and how could he cry? He was never crying, he wasn't a guy who cried. And yet he couldn't help it; salty water created small traces on his sharp cheeks when they hurried down to soak into the fabric of his shirt and disappear from the world. He was good at hiding, but his brother knew him too well. He stopped talking and hurried to his side.

He took his brother's hands into his and silently looked at him. His heart melted and left his body as he saw the confusion on the younger boy's face and couldn't wash it away as he often did. He could just stand there and watch.

He knew they were coming. He couldn't see them yet, but he could feel it. These were the last moments with his brother and even though it was tearing him apart, there was something comforting in it. Of course they were together. Since their birth to the moment when their ways would be separated. He had never imagined that it would be so soon.

He pulled the other boy closer, hid him in his arms and began to cry. The latter had no idea what was going on, but his brother cried so he cried as well. If his brother cried, there was a reason for crying. And it was painful to watch the familiar face changed with sadness anyway. He didn't need to be pushed into crying, even though he had no idea what the reason was.

He heard soft footsteps behind himself and he knew this was the moment. The moment when they were about to see each other for the last time. He withdrew from his brother's embrace and looked into the same eyes he had.

„I'm sorry. Sorry for everything. I love you." He whispered and kissed his brother's cheek. The latter didn't know what was going on; his mind was pacing so fast he coudln't catch a single coherent thought. But he understood very well the situation was wrong. He stared into his older brother's eyes and he couldn't supress fear that came into his face. He wanted to ask what this was supposed to mean, he wanted to do something, but he was perplexed.

A huge hand fell on his shoulder. He simply nodded and gave his younger brother's hand one last squeeze before they dragged him away.

The younger boy stood still for a while, unable to move, to speak, to do anything. And after a moment he screamed in pain and ran after his brother. He was furious, one of his strange seizures taking over him. He ran as fast as he could, but his vision was blurred and he saw everything and nothing at once. He thought he saw his brother and then it turned into an old man, then into his mother and his brother again. He was running and screaming in pain, but there was nobody to chase anymore.

And yet he didn't cease. He kept hitting the ground with his feet, sending the leaves that had fallen on the ground into the air for one last, futile attempt to live. He didn't notice it began to rain; he felt hot so he took off his coat. He felt desperate, lost and furious even though he had no idea whom his fury was aimed upon. It didn't matter anymore.

Water was pouring from the sky above and it felt like all angels were weeping because of the small boy whose world had just scattered into pieces and the only thing left for him was to run, to try to find all the shards and put them together in hope everything would be as it had been. But the harder he tried, the more difficult it was and finally he accepted his world was lost and he couldn't be saved.

The darkness had fallen and he calmed down, his seizure fading away, his fury diminishing, his more rational side kicking in. He stopped and tried to catch his breath but he couldn't. He started to hyperventilate and tried desperately to remember what his brother had told him to calm himself down.

But his mind, his best helper, betrayed him. He coudln't remember a single word, feeling or action. He fell down onto his knees and curled into a ball. His eyes fell closed and he cried. His despair was spouting from his very being and his tears were freezing immediately on his cheeks before he could wipe them away. And his fragile, innocent soul was fleeing his body with them and all that was left was bitterness and emptiness.

Cold wind blew through the park, oblivious to the misery it surroundered. It continued on travelling and didn't care about the boy who looked smaller than he was, who was lying on the ground. But not everythind passing by was so heartless.

„What's your name?" feminine voice asked him. He watched her for some time and his mind took over immediately. _Around thirty, going back home from a fitness, maybe pilates. Without children, quite rich. Good profession, loving husband, wish to have a child but there's something with him, maybe he's too old…_

He tried to focus on her, but his vision didn't work. He remembered her question.

„Holmes. Sherlock Holmes." He breathed and passed out.

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**_So? What do you guys think after this confusing prologue? Let me know in reviews, please!_**


	2. Since you're gone

_**Thanks to everybody who's read this so far. Enjoy the first real chapter of it and let me know what you think. **_

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_**Seventeen years later**_

„It's simple, you know. I can't really believe you didn't know what to do about this case." Sherlock shook his head and gave Greg Lestrade a piece of paper. „Here, I've written everything down. It's too boring to explain everything to you."

„Sherlock, wait-" the detective called after him but Holmes had already gone away. Lestrade sighed and looked at the paper. There were few words scattered on it; Sherlock's strange handwriting left a lot of space to his imagination but he could – with a great knowledge of the case – guess what did the words mean.

He went to arrest the person he was told to arrest and while he drove there, his phone rang. He used the bluetooth connection of his phone and car and answered the call without using his hands. Some things were really getting better about cars.

„Detective inspector Lestrade," he said before he read who called. He almost cursed when he realised his mistake.

„Oh come on, do you really want me to call you detective inspector Lestrade?" the voice on the other side asked with a chuckle.

„Everything for you, Mycroft," he laughed, „do you need anything or did you just realise you haven't called me in decades?"

„In fact, both. You know what day is today." The other man sighed and laughter immediately died on Lestrade's lips.

„Yeah. That's why he left without explanation. I thought he was weird, I-"

„You left him alone?" Mycroft cut him off. Lestrade swallowed. _Fuck. I really screwed things up. _

„Yeah. I'm sorry, Mycroft, I forgot about it. I'm terribly sorry." He tried to apologize, but the other man wasn't listening to him anymore.

„When did you last see him?" he asked instead.

„Couple minutes ago, five maybe," came a quick reply. There was silence on the other side of the call.

„Okay. I'm gonna get him, I think I may know where he is and I hope I'll find him soon enough to keep him from doing something really idiotic. Bye," Mycroft hang up before the detective could reply. He punched the steering wheel instead to get rid of the frustration he felt. He really wasn't experiencing the best days of his life. His wife left him again and threatened to take the kids with her, he wasn't able to solve a really easy case and now he forgot to keep an eye on Sherlock.

It was repeating itself every year, as Mycroft had told him. Sherlock was a strange individual for the whole year, getting stoned from time to time, smoking everything that could burn, and – nobody knew this though – opening cuts on his wrists, thighs and other parts of his body. But on that day, the particular day when everything began, it was getting worse. Sherlock had nearly killed himself seven times, intentionally or not.

It was a tricky situation for Mycroft. He was concerned about his brother's well-being but Sherlock didn't let him do anything to help. They'd been arguing about it so often they eventually stopped talking to each other. Sherlock didn't want anybody to know about his problems, he didn't want anybody's help, concern or for the worst pity. He wanted the only thing he couldn't get – to forget.

He had stopped believing he would see his brother again many years ago. The first years had been the worst – he had had enough social issues even without losing the person he cared about the most. The stage of denial was long and painful. Nobody actually trusted Sherlock would get better and he had, after all. But he hadn't been the same person he had used to be.

Lestrade arrested the person responsible for the crime – as Sherlock had instructed him to – and told Donovan he was going home. She didn't dare to speak her mind but he could see a bitter remark forming up in her head.

_May I help?_

He considered sending the text to Mycroft. If Holmes needed him, he would have texted himself. But Greg felt desperate and he needed to do something, he had to at least try to fix what he had screwed up. He clicked on ‚send' and walked around his car for some time. He was hungry, but he knew it was only because of the stress he had been experiencing lately, he had eaten two hours ago.

_Go and look if he's not in Baker street 221B. He said he wanted to rent a flat there. _

Lestrade raised one eyebrow. That wasn't like Sherlock Holmes, being rational on such a day. But Mycroft's words echoed in his mind and he had to admit the other man was probably just desperate. That meant he had searched on the usual places and didn't find his brother. The detective cursed silently and drove to the Baker Street.

He left the car and after a while he rang on the bell. After some time, there was a short, amiably looking woman at the door. She smiled at him.

„What can I do for you, darling?" She asked and made him come in even though he didn't really want to.

„I'm sorry to bother you. My name is Lestrade and I am searching for my friend, Sherlock Holmes. I was told he had an interest in renting a flat in this house." He asked hurriedly, his eyes were already wandering over the hall around him as if he expected to see Sherlock walk on the ceiling or something.

„Yes, he's upstairs, he said he wanted to take a better look at the flat." She replied and if she was surprised that Sherlock had a friend or if she suspected something from Lestrade's behaviour, she didn't let it be seen.

„And may I see him?" Lestrade breathed out while he tried to catch a phone he had in his pocket.

„Of course, I'll lead you to him." She began ascending the staircase. „My name's Hudson, by the way."

„Nice to meet you," Greg replied while writing a text to Mycroft. Reply came immediately.

_Don't let her see him!_

He startled. He had never seen Mycroft use an exclamation mark, let alone three. The sight of Sherlock would be most probably quite horrifing.

„Mrs Hudson?" He called and the lady turned to see him.

„I… can I get a cup of tea, please? I'm really exhausted from work." He hated himsef for being so impolite, but he was too tired to think of anything else.

„Sure you can. It's this flat; I'll cook you the tea. Come down later and take Sherlock as well. He didn't look very good when I saw him." She smiled and disappeared into her own flat. Lestrade let out a sigh and wanted to enter the room before another text disturbed him.

„Damn you, Mycroft. Can't you just send one?" He murmured under his breath.

_He'll probably look like hell. I'm sorry you'll have to see it. I'll be there in a while, just make sure he survives._

Greg realised that Mycroft hated texting. He didn't do it if he didn't have to and that only added fuel into the fire of Lestrade's worry.

Lestrade took a deep, steadying breath before he entered. He opened the door and half expected to get shot or poisoned by some gas. He felt a bit safer; he actually thought of telling Mycroft off for dragging him into that. He pictured Holmes sitting in a luxurious office and laughing at the stupid detective who fell for his prank. Lestrade didn't like bored Holmes'. He felt like an idiot for getting himself caught in Mycroft's net of lies and almost didn't look into the flat at all.

When he did, he prayed he could say he was right in his theory that Mycroft was exaggerating.

„He couldn't even come himself?" rough, husky voice entered his ears before he could even see the man. He turned around and finally caught glance of Sherlock.

„He's coming, you know," Greg replied and looked on the room. It was untidy, there were many things everywhere, as if somebody had brought all of them at once and didn't get to put them into places. But considering this was Sherlock it could have been there for ages.

„I don't really need him to come. His sweetheart is good enough for me." Sherlock snapped. Lestrade turned to him immediately. The consulting detective was sitting down on a floor wrapped in his black coat; his blue scarf was lying beside him as if he'd thrown it away previously. He had a cigarette between his right index and middle finger and few broken matches, scattered around Sherlock as if his hands were shaking when he lit up his cigarette. He was staring up at the ceiling with distant gaze and his lips were slightly parted as if he was too lazy to close his mouth. There were few paths of something on Sherlock's forearm. Greg couldn't recogize it but it was too similar to how cut wrists with dried blood would look like.

„He's not my – I'm married – " Greg made few steps towards the man on the floor. He frowned angrily but it came out more like a gasp. „Why do you even –?"

„You're so obvious even you would see it. Your marriage is not working anyway, is it?" Sherlock didn't look at him. Before Lestrade could answer, he went on, „You call or see each other all the time, you call him Mycroft – he doesn't let many people call him Mycroft –, you are to see him this evening and you used a new perfume, you have a clean, expensive shirt, tailor-made suit and you've very recently been to hairdresser's. You want to make an impression."

„I'm not here to listen to your stupid deductions." Greg turned around to hide blush. „He told me to make sure you're okay."

„Oh, I'm perfectly alright, thank you. I don't need your or Mycroft's care, I'm an adult, you know." Holmes chuckled but it turned out to be more a cough. The young man curled himself up in a rather awful seizure. The detective squatted beside him and watched him with worry.

„And how do you know that?" Greg snapped.

„I know when I was born, I'm not an idiot," Sherlock replied, „would you move aside a bit? I'm trying to smoke."

„You shouldn't smoke, it makes you weird. Well, more weird than usual." Lestrade tried to take the cigarette from Sherlock. The latter simply pulled his arm from his reach.

"I don't care. But you can tell Mycroft you saw me and I'm alright. The door is over there, thank you. Oh, and tell Mrs Hudson I'll consider renting this flat." Sherlock took another drag of his cigarette and looked smug and confident.

"I'm not gonna leave, not before your brother comes to look after you." Greg said and frowned at him.

„You can call him Mycroft. There's nothing wrong with being gay," Sherlock closed his eyes.

„I'm not a gay," Lestrade tried to object, but in the same moment Sherlock chose to get up. He stood up and almost tripped over Greg. He looked around and tried to walk towards one couch, with a puzzled expression. His dilated pupils gave away enough for Lestrade to see that he'd had something more than just a cigarette. The detective approached Holmes to catch him if he fell down.

„Sorry to disappoint you then, but my brother is not a woman," Sherlock babbled and with effort finally managed to sit down. He found a small pillow and cuddled with it. He pulled his knees up under his chin and he embraced his shins. He rested his face on his legs and closed his eyes sleepily.

„You're a real pain in the ass," Greg said but the other man wasn't listening, he had fallen asleep and now he was snoring slightly. Lestrade sighed and sat down on a small table in front of Sherlock. Greg had no idea which drug exactly he'd taken but he hoped it wasn't too much to endanger him. He was sitting there for some time and he thought of Sherlock's words. He didn't really know how to feel about Mycroft. He did care for him and he liked his company, but that didn't mean he had a romantic interest in him. Or did it?

„Oh, hello, Greg, I'm glad you're here." The object of his thoughts appeared in the doorframe and Lestrade almost jumped up in surprise. He felt his heartbeat to be a bit too fast; he just hoped the latter didn't notice. He did, but kept the information for himself.

„I can say the same. Your brother's been particularly annoying today." Lestrade shrugged but he couldn't hide a smile.

„I'm sorry for that. I hope not too much to make you stop talking to me." Mycroft looked more confident than he really felt.

„No, just his casual way of being rude," Greg said and they finally looked at Sherlock who was sleeping on the couch and looked even younger than he was. „And I think he's drugged."

„Cigarettes?" Mycroft asked and came closer to his brother.

„Yeah, but I think something else as well." Lestrade answered and looked down. „I'm sorry for that."

„It's alright. I'm glad you could be here at least for the time you were." Mycroft inspected his brother and when he saw he wasn't dying, he turned back to Greg.

„I guess we're not going on that dinner today." Lestrade stated and tried not to sound too disappointed.

„We are. I'm not gonna let my brother spoil my life he's got enough of his own to destroy. I'll ask Mrs Hudson to look after him." Mycroft's face lit up. „He's done his drugs already."

„We should find somebody to look after him," Lestrade said, „I don't really enjoy babysitting him."

„I know and I'm sorry for that. I'll work on it." Mycroft promised and meant it. It was now his priority; the question was – who'd be crazy enough to look after Sherlock?


	3. I can't be helped

Sherlock woke up with stiff neck from falling asleep on the couch, light headache from the drugs he'd had the day before and his usual grumpy mood. He got up and went to the window to look down. It was still dark outside, he guessed it was around five o'clock, even though he couldn't be sure since it was rather foggy. He stretched himself and with a huge yawn went into the kitchen to get a glass of water. When he passed table in the living room, he saw a small piece of paper. He frowned and took it into his hands to inspect it. His mind wasn't cooperating when he tried to focus on the tiny letters, but he'd recognized the handwriting immediately. He growled in annoyance and threw Mycroft's note on the ground without reading it.

After he drank some water and his headache got at least a bit better, he returned back into the living room and overlooked all the mess he'd brought there. He thought about leaving it where it was and simply ignoring that people usually put their things into drawers and wardrobes. However, the flat was really expensive, even with Mrs Hudson having a thing for him. He had to find a flatmate and he certainly shouldn't make such a bad impression. He liked the flat but he couldn't afford it alone; and if he wanted to find somebody who'd pay the rest of the rent, he'd have to act at least a bit like a normal person. That was challenging.

Sherlock was unpacking his things for three or four hours. By that time, the sun was already shining and when he finally settled his last thing somewhere, he was exhausted. It was really challenging because Sherlock hated monotonous work where he didn't need to use brain. Unpacking things was boring, tiring and incredibly dull. He sat down into one armchair and looked at his work.

It wasn't perfect, not at all, but it was the best he could bring himself to do. He smiled and closed his eyes for a while to relieve the sharp pain that seemed to bounce from side to side in his skull, unable to find its way out. He remembered he had another case Lestrade couldn't solve even though it seemed to be pretty trivial. _He shouldn't spend so much time with Mycroft. He's like a thirteen-year-old boy in love. And it has to happen with my brother of all people._

Sherlock sighed and stood up quickly. He needed to prove some theory in St. Bart's but he couldn't go there when he looked like he looked. He took off his coat and inspected it – it looked perfect as usual. Sherlock smirked – nothing could beat his coat. However, his other pieces of clothing weren't that flawless. He undressed and decided to have a shower as well. His headache ceased a bit what he was grateful for – he didn't need a reminder of last night.

He couldn't really shut the memories from his mind, he was able to forget various things that were unimportant, but he couldn't forget the only thing he desperately needed to erase from his mind. He craved for the calm Mycroft had obviously reached, but whatever he did, however hard he tried, it was still there. The empty space in his soul where his twin should be. He doubted the hole would ever fill, that it was possible to heal the wounds on his soul. He was broken and there was nothing to do. He could solve crimes, he could help to fight evil, but he almost didn't hope he might be saved.

When he finally prepared himself for leaving the flat, he looked at himself in a mirror once again. He could see dark circles under his eyes from many restless nights he had had; he didn't even remember living without them. His sharp cheekbones were very obvious on his face, but today maybe even more than usual. Eyes, usually very bright were now dim and unfocused as he didn't need to think or pretend to be thinking. Alone, he could be himself and he didn't have to pretend he was alright or that he had forgotten about his twin. He was tired of playing a game of hide and seek when he had just one chance to hide and never get sought. He didn't want this one last bit of freedom to be taken away from him by a flatmate, but he didn't have any chance. He was tired of being alone, it hurt him to be so lonely even if changing it only meant to see two toothbrushes in the bathroom instead of one.

Sherlock sighed and pulled out a small box of make-up he had. He tried not to use it too often, but he really looked terrible that day. He put some of it on the marble skin under his eyes and without really being satisfied he returned the box to its place before finally wrapping his blue scarf around his neck and shoulders and putting his coat on. He felt especially cold that day but he didn't know why. He shivered and he chose to ignore it. Before he left the house, he went to see Mrs Hudson in her flat to say thank you to her because he was sure she'd been to see whether he was okay a few times during the night. He just hoped he wasn't screaming in sleep or that she didn't have to save him from death. He couldn't be really sure even though he didn't remember anything of that matter.

He didn't take a cab; he felt exceptionally paranoid that morning and he didn't believe any closed place. He didn't have claustrophobia, but sometimes everything seemed to be falling on him and in those moments he prefered to be alone. He raised the collar on his coat as high as possible and tried to hide behind it. His brisk eyes were scanning the streets around him, searching for some possible danger. It took him some time but finally he was standing right in front of the hospital and he let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. He almost laughed at himself but he couldn't; not just one day after. Not ever.

He looked around once again and sped up. He closed the door behind himself and when he unbuttoned his coat and took off the scarf, he noticed his hands were shaking too much for him to ignore it. He couldn't let himself to be seen in such a state; Molly would ask him annoying, uncomfortable questions. She didn't make a pleasant companion and Sherlock wasn't in a mood for listening to her clumsy efforts to flirt. He went into the cafeteria and sat down with a cup of strong black coffee. He was staring into it and tried to compose himself. He had no idea of what was going on, but he was suffering from these attack of extreme anxiety more and more often lately and it worried him. He couldn't be a consulting detective if he panicked every time he left home. He watched his fingers and tried to understand how it had happened.

„Sherlock, is it you?" familiar male voice spoke close to him. Sherlock almost jumped up in his chair. He looked up and pulled his hands under the table immediately. His sight was met by cheerful eyes of Mike Stamford, one of the few people he could call acquaitance.

„Oh, hi, Mike, I haven't seen you," Sherlock mumbled and indicated for the other man to sit down beside him.

„Yeah, I've noticed. What's troubling you, man?" Mike placed his rather bulky body onto a chair opposite Sherlock. They made such a contrasting pair of people it felt absurd to Sherlock. „And don't try to fool me, I know there's something wrong with you."

„I'm fine," Sherlock muttered through gritted teeth. His hands didn't stop shaking and he grabbed the cup, clutching it tightly to hide how his fingeres shivered. He had almost too many problems to handle and he was barely holding in one piece. He couldn't talk about them; he feared that if he spoke about them, he'd realise them to the full content and he would fall apart. But he could try to make Mike fall for his shallow problem. „I just feel lonely. I'd like to find somebody to share a flat with me."

„And the problem is?" Mike raised one eyebrow and Sherlock inhaled sharply. He took a sip of his coffee and frowned at Mike.

„You know me. You've known me for two years, four months and some days. Do you think it's an easy thing for me to find somebody who'd live with me?" Sherlock snapped; annoyance visible in his face.

„Oh come on, Sherlock, I was trying to joke." Mike shook his head.

„Don't do it, it doesn't suit you," Sherlock snarled, drank the rest of the coffee and stood up. „Bye, Mike, see you soon."

„Wait, I didn't mean it wrong!" Mike tried to call the detective back but Sherlock was already gone. He just shook his head; reading Holmes certainly wasn't easy.

„Morning, Molly," Sherlock greeted the young woman as he passed her by. She blushed light pink and murmured some clumsy reply he didn't hear because he was already in the morgue, walking around amongst the cold, motionless corpses and ignored the world of the living only to dwell in the one of the dead. He was there to see into minds that were already gone, dispersed in the air; to find out what they'd seen, whom they'd hated, what they'd believed in and what they'd dreamt of before something finally cut off the line of their life. It calmed Sherlock down, it soothed him that there were other people who had problems, who grieved, who lost somebody. It wasn't a very good quality but he didn't care.

Sherlock watched the face of a thin, dark-haired woman who laid there on a cot, life already disappeared from her face. His eyes fell on her full lips that might have been red once, but now were pale as the soul that was lighting her features up escaped through an ugly, deep wound in her chest. Quite a simple case; angry, jealous husband and a sharp, big knife. Nothing too challenging for Sherlock's genius, but a calming sight.

He covered her face again and moved to another helpless corpse and he felt it watched his every movement. This was an elderly man, obese, with few strands of grey hair and fingertips yellow because of smoking. Sherlock puckered his nose in disgust but he still paid enough attention to the man to notice few small bruises. He smirked to himself; he finally had some work to do. But it was a bitter smile and he worked absent-mindedly, without his usual enthusiasm.

_Bring me my riding crop, please. I need to prove one theory. –SH_

Molly Hooper almost jumped up into the air as her phone beeped. She fished it out of her pocket and frowned as she saw she got a new text; she wasn't getting texts. She opened it and her heart sped up as she saw the signature SH. Molly was a silly girl who still believed she had a chance with Sherlock, even after many months of him ignoring all her attempts to get him on a date. She could still think he might want to see her, or maybe needed her help with something. His unusual request surprised her, but she knew Sherlock had left a riding crop in the hall.

She'd always wondered why and now she might see it. She went into the morgue sheepishly as if in fear she might disturb Sherlock's work. Her soft footfalls echoed in the empty, clean corridor and she once again realised how lonely and miserable her job was. Yet she didn't regret it; being a pathologist she could watch Sherlock working and nothing could rival Sherlock leaning above a body or staring into a microscope and strewing various random thoughts that usually showed how stupid a person could be. She loved watching him, it was fascinating and Molly couldn't help but day dream about what it would be like to burry her fingers into his curly hair.

„Ah, thank you, Molly," he didn't turn his sight to her when he outstretched an arm towards her in attempt to get the crop. She watched him with worry but she hesitantly placed it into his hand. She accidently – or maybe not accidentally at all – brushed her fingers against his skin and she almost dropped the crop onto the ground. His hands were cold, freezing and so was his gaze when she caught the sight of his face. He was pale, even paler than usual and Molly was observant enough to notice that the make up that was Sherlock's usual colour was now significantly darker than his soft skin. Sherlock was almost shining with sickness and Molly had seen enough sick people. She bit her lip in expectation of rejection but she had to ask. It didn't only come from her childish crush on him but also from a friend's concern.

„Sherlock, what's the matter?" she whispered and he tensed in the middle of his movement. She noticed she'd done too much and braced herself from an outburst of fury from him. Instead his thoughtful eyes turned to her and she saw so many emotions in them she almost fell down. She even doubted she was awake because her mind must have been fooling her. Sherlock didn't let people see his emotions, especially not Molly. She feared to blink as she was sure it would disappear from his face, but it didn't. He just stared at her and the crop in his hands threatened to break from the strength he was pressing it with.

Sherlock seemed to be fighting an internal battle. He desperately wanted to open up to somebody, to cry on somebody's shoulder and to talk about all his worries but he didn't have anybody to do so. And on the other hand he didn't know if Molly was strong enough to hold him. He knew she would try as hard as she could, but eventually she would drop him to the ground. He wanted to tell Molly how lonely he felt, how frightened he was every time he went out of a building, how much he yearned for a person who would love him. But he knew he was deceiving himself. Deep inside he knew Molly wasn't the person who would carry him. He needed somebody stronger and as broken as he was; somebody who'd gone through hell and survived. He needed to be taught to deal with his despair, not to be helped dealing. He feared opening to anybody because nothing could erase the pain of losing the only person he'd relied on but himself. Molly might help him but she certainly couldn't teach him to live. She was too innocent and he realised he couldn't make her lose her sweet childishness.

„I'm just tired," he mumbled and turned back to the corpse with bitter tears in his eyes. Molly stood behind him and tried to find out how to open or break the hard shell Sherlock had created around himself. She knew he wanted to tell her the truth but something disabled him to do so. She wanted to save him.

„I can help you," she murmured and went closer to him. He heard the quiet clatter of her shoes and he expected her to touch him. He couldn't decide whether he wanted her to do it or not.

„Just let me, Sherlock. I want to help you. I won't leave you, I promise," Molly kept talking and approaching Sherlock who stood rigid and motionless above the dead body. Her whispering sounded like a lure of the sirens to him. He wished to believe her, his whole being desired to be with her, to trust her. And she was getting closer and closer. Her accelerated heart beat hummed in her ears and she felt almost sick. She was finally getting close to her hero, her idol.

Sherlock closed his eyes in anticipation of a gentle touch and picture of his long lost brother flashed through his mind. Despite it's been seventeen years since Sherlock had seen him, in his mind he saw him the same age he would be – or was. He simply altered his own features in his mind and he didn't realise his brother could look differently. Molly placed her soft hand on his shoulder and he took a deep breath. The hand was wrong, too small and too tender. He opened his eyes to see her wide ones and he withdrew immediately.

„I – Please, leave me alone," he murmured and his voice was filled with sorrow. Molly wanted to object, but his eyes were too full of remorse and fear. She nodded and left. Sherlock bit his lip to fight the tears that crept into his eyes and he concentrated back on his work before he would collapse.

He grabbed the crop tightly and hit the corpse maybe too hard. It didn't matter; the man was dead and Sherlock was doing everything he could not to follow the man into the kingdom of shadows. Molly stood in the upper floor and watched him through the glass of a small window. He didn't see her but he knew she would be there. She was always there, silent and observing.


	4. The missing parts

_**Meet John and Khan in this chapter! :) Enjoy.**_

* * *

John Watson woke up from a nightmare. He sat up and it took him some time to recognize his room, flashes of the battle-field still filling his mind. Cold droplets of sweat were shining on his forehead and soaking into his shirt. He rubbed his face to get rid of the last remnants of the frightening pictures but it didn't help. He stood up, sharp pain striking through his leg. He gritted his teeth and got hold of a cane to help himself to go into a bathroom. He washed his face with cold water and stared at himself for some time. He saw a tired man who looked like he would use some work. John hated doing nothing just as much as he hated being alone. He hadn't minded it much when he was younger, but now every night he had to spend on his own was excrutiating and he often woke up to a scream of somebody only to find out it was his own. He hated being alone, but he couldn't really do anything about it, at least not in his opinion.

His therapist had advised him to get a job and find somebody who'd share a flat with him. John was trying to fulfill her first suggestion as much as he could, but he had no idea how he'd do the second. He hadn't had much luck with women even before the war and since he'd returned it was even worse. And who would want to live with him if not for a romantic relationship? He was often having nightmares and he screamed in sleep; he suffered from insomnia and he didn't think he was the kind of a flatmate one would ask for. But with the growing number of sleepless nights, he decided it was maybe time to at least try to find a person to live with.

After short glance at clock on a microwave he rolled his eyes with a sigh and turned the light on. It was too late for trying to fall asleep again but too soon to consider that a normal hour of waking up. He got himself a cup of coffee and sat down to his laptop. He turned it on and watched the screen when it was warming up. He yawned and closed his eyes for a while only to see the memories of the war. He woke up again and took a sip of the coffee.

He typed in his password and waited for some more time to get the laptop work. Then he opened the internet, logged into his blog and stared at the blank screen. He couldn't bring himself to write anything; there was nothing to write about. His life was so desperately boring and uneventful he would pay other people to get him some sort of distraction.

_The day hasn't even begun and I'm already feeling miserable. _

He typed in and quickly erased the sentence. This wasn't what his psychologist wanted him to do. But what should he write about?

_There's nothing going on in my life except for unbearable boredom. I haven't slept properly in ages and I've forgoten what having a friend feels like. I feel miserable and I'm hopelessly trying to find something to do. It's not particularly easy. I'd really appreciate some distraction. I might go to visit some local hospital and try to ask for a job there. I'm really hopeless; I didn't expect getting a job as a soldier would be so difficult._

_I'll probably need some sleeping pills if this doesn't get better immediately_.

He erased all what he wrote and snapped the laptop closed angrily. He got himself a slice of bread with jam to ease his depression. That day really sucked.

Noonien Singh, previously known as Khan Holmes, wiped sweat off his forehead and he returned back to training. He was lifting up things so heavy a normal person wouldn't even consider to lift. His body refused to grow all the muscles his friends had; no matter how he tried, he was still thin. However strong, he was thin and pale. What made him superior even to his companions was his intelligence and his perfect speaking ability. He could convince people that sea water was sweet if he wanted to.

Yet, Khan didn't want to look fragile compared to the other people that were soon to be his crew. What did it look like, captain of a crew that looked as if he'd forgoten health somewhere in the process of becoming an officer.

_Space. Am I really going to Space?_ He thought to himself as he got over thirty sit-ups. _How is it possible they could be hiding it for so long? How come nobody knows about it? _Fourty._ What do they think they're gonna achieve? I don't like this at all despite I don't know why. Oh, I do know, but I don't want to acknowledge it. As my little brother would say…_

Khan fell back onto the ground with pain. They'd beaten everything out of him; mercy, care, tenderness or compassion but they couldn't break him completely, he'd kept one thing from his past. He loved his brother passionately and nothing could change that.

He was thinking about his past life a lot. He didn't remember much, he wasn't allowed to and they made sure he had only few memories left. He knew he had two brothers, a twin and an older one who had never had understanding for him and his little Sherly. He remembered his parents and their home but that was all. Only Sherly had a firm place in his mind and nobody could break the connection between them.

Khan rose to his feet and decided he needed something more brutal and less thought-provoking to keep himself in control of his emotions. Now too much depended on his behaviour and he couldn't spoil everything. He had to appear to be the only one who could lead his people, not just the best one. He had to be essential before he could ask for something he had wanted to ask since they kidnapped him.

Khan had been intelligent enough not to struggle. That was the first good point he had; while others had cried or acted violently, he was silent and obedient. He'd been burning with rage inside, but he had managed to suppress his feelings for the sake of his goal. He wanted to get his brother back, whatever the cost but he could be patient. Now the time came to show that he was not just obedient, loyal and well-behaving, but also smart, wicked and cunning. His plan was going well so far.

He put on his shirt and ignored the fact that it sticked to his body immediately because of the sweat covering his chest. He moved into another room where the weapons were kept. He nodded at the warden who nodded back and continued reading a men's magazine. Khan rolled his eyes but managed not to laugh. He moved to the station with knives and found his favourite set. He kept it behind all the other sets, in an old and bad looking box. But his blades were the sharpest and deadliest.

He ran a finger down the sharp side of the knife and watched with fascination how a thin wound appeared on his skin only to heal immediately. Only thing that let him know he hadn't dreamt was the still fresh blood trickling down on the floor. He smirked and wiped the remaining blood into the fabric of his shirt. He got his knives and went on the other side of the room. He was far from the target on the wall but he was sure he would strike right into the center. Unmoving targets were not a challenge for him anymore.

He started to practice a training he'd developed for himself. He ran for a few moments, then he fell to the ground and began rolling around and throwing the knives against the wall in the process. When he repeated all of it for couple of times with a perfect result, he smirked and returned his knives where he had found them. After this, he ran out of the gym for his usual evening run. He had no idea that the warden from the gym had immediately called the admiral responsible for the Baskerville programme. The latter was very pleased to hear his most promising pupil was doing so well. Even though he regretted that he had only one of the twins, he knew he'd done it the best way he could. If he kidnapped both of them in the same time, he wouldn't have either of them. His theory that Khan needed a very strong motivation was proved; he wouldn't work that hard without the vision of Sherlock in his mind. And the other Holmes needed some time in the real world to learn how to use his outstanding intelligence. No, this was the best way, but the admiral was impatient to finally get his second ace to hide in a sleeve for another game.


	5. Can I get another chance?

„I've just heard that from somebody." Mike smiled at John who returned the gesture. He didn't want to appear rude, so he followed his former classmate into the building, but he didn't feel too enthusiastic about it. He didn't think the other person would want him in a same flat, no matter who he – as John thought – or she – as he hoped – was. He planned to be honest about his insomnia and other problems, which also meant he would probably stay alone for the rest of his life.

„Look, Mike, I really appreciate this, but the person who told you so was probably exaggerating. I'm not. I have nightmares and I need a psychotherapist." John tried it for the last time.

„Ah, don't worry, Sherlock exaggerates when he says he's a bit odd. He's completely mad to be honest. The difference between you two is not that either of you need a psychotherapist, it's that you realise it while he doesn't." Mike turned to him. „Come on, meet him at least. I'm sure you'll like him."

John shrugged but obeyed. What else could he do? They went into the direction of the morgue and John frowned a bit. Mike hadn't said anything about the mysterious Sherlock being a doctor. What does that name even supposed to mean? John thought to himself. Not that he disliked it, but it sounded… exotic, ufamiliar.

„So, here we go," Mike smiled and opened door of one lab while John went inside. There was a thin, tall man looking into a microscope before him and he appeared to not notice their arrival at all.

„This lab has changed," John remarked.

„Mike, please lend me your phone," the man – Sherlock, as John guessed – said, not looking away from the lens.

„Why didn't you use a normal telefone?" Mike asked, just to show John he wasn't lying about Sherlock. „I don't have it here,"

„I preffer texts," Sherlock replied and finally looked up.

„So, here's mine," John surprised all of them and himself the most. He handed Sherlock his mobile.

„Thank you," the detective took it from his hands and gave it few looks before writing the text.

„Afganistan or Iraq?" He added absentmindedly.

„Sorry, what?" John blinked in surprise. He gave Sherlock one more look; he hadn't watched him too precisely before but now it seemed this man deserved further examination.

„I asked Afganistan or Iraq. You are obviously a soldier, judging by your poise and haircut. You have a cane; you've been injured and you've probably just returned from war. Your face and hands are tanned, but your wrists are paler. You were exposed to sun but you weren't sunbathing. That leaves only few places you could have returned from." Sherlock's piercing eyes stabbed John with hard gaze. For some reason John couldn't name his heart started to beat faster at the sight. „Afganistan or Iraq?"

„Afganistan," John mumbled silently. Sherlock smirked for himself, came closer to the doctor and gave him the phone.

„A war doctor, I assume?" the taller man purred as if these were the best words he could pronounce. John swallowed audibly; there was something wrong with the other man and yet it drew John to him. Mike chuckled for himself, but nobody noticed him.

„And you deduced that from…?" John raised an eyebrow and hid the phone in his pocket only to busy his hands. He expected the movement to push Sherlock away, but it didn't, the detective kept standing only a foot away from him and didn't seem to be willing to change it.

„When you arrived, you said ‚This lab has changed.' So you've already seen it, but you haven't been here for couple of years because it's been some time since it was reconstructed. And you and Mike act as old friends who had once been very close but haven't seen each other for a long time. Since you've just come back from a war and you have studied medicine I assume you are a war doctor." Sherlock gave John a confident smile. He leant against one of the tables while the latter just stared at him.

„That was impressive," he finally managed to let out.

„Oh, thank you, it was quite simple," Sherlock shrugged, „so how about you and violin?"

„I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about." John said and felt exceptionally awkward. It didn't usually happen to him, he thought he was a quite intelligent person but he felt as smart as a guinea-pig in that moment.

„When I need to think, I play the violin, sometimes I don't speak for days," Sherlock didn't finish the sentence as if there were many other things on this list. „a flat-mate should know about the risks."

„Who talked about a flat-mate?" John yelped and looked at Mike for help which didn't come.

„I did," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, „in the morning I told Mike I was searching for somebody to share a flat with me and in the afternoon he appears here with a friend who's obviously just returned back from a war in Afganistan. Quite elementary."

John gave Mike a quizzical look but the other man just shrugged and shook his head. John rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to say something. Sherlock had in the meantime gathered all his belongings and headed out of the room.

„So it's settled. I'll meet you in Baker street tomorrow at four, see you then." Sherlock called as he closed the door behind him.

„Wait!" John ran out into the corridor, „I don't even know you and I have no idea where I should be. Why do you even think I'd come?"

„My name's Sherlock Holmes and I can't afford a flat at Baker street 221b on my own. That's why I need you. Since Mike took you to me out of all people he knows, you must be very desperate to find somebody to live with you. Since you have a walking stick but you didn't sit down in the lab, I assume you have a PTSD from the war. That's probably why you don't want to be alone. Is this enough or should I go on?" Sherlock sounded as if he was upset or in a hurry, but he enjoyed watching John.

„I guess… I guess that would be all. I'll meet you there," John mumbled. Sherlock gave him a small but genuine smile.

„Good bye, doctor," he said and after few long paces he was gone. John stood there in the corridor and stared at the spot where the detective had been standing only few moments ago. When he finally processed the course of actions, he turned around and went back into the lab where Mike was still waiting for him. At least it didn't look like he was going to be bored with his flat-mate. Even though John's brain didn't know it yet, his heart had already decided to follow Sherlock wherever he would go. Nobody less interesting could catch John's attention.

* * *

„You can call me Sherlock," the tall detective said and reached his hand to John, „if you want."

„John," the doctor replied and took it. They smiled at each other before letting go. Holmes went to the door first and opened it; on the way he said some story that didn't particularly surprise John. He nodded and thanked Sherlock as he held the door for his shorter companion. John realised how it could have looked and he flushed slightly without any apparent reason for doing it while Sherlock pretended he didn't understand. They made the climb upstairs and Sherlock opened the door to the flat.

John's eyes fell on the dissaray and complete anarchy in the room. Sherlock bit his lip as he realised this was how his room looked when it had been recently tidied up. He didn't tell John though. The doctor went through the living room and looked around himself.

„I've already moved in some of my things-"

„It'll be a nice flat if we get rid of the mess-"

They stared at each other for a while and the silence felt awkward. John knew he should move, continue in doing whatever he was supposed to be doing but he couldn't take his eyes off Sherlock. He sighed.

„Well, guess we'll have to rearrange it." John shrugged and his eyes drifted all over the room when his eyes caught a sight of a human skull on a mantel. He walked to it and examined it.

„It's real." He murmured in disbelief. It wasn't particularly easy to get hold of a skull these days.

„Yeah, that's…uhm…old friend." Sherlock shrugged and tried to move some things aside to make the room appear to be cleaner. John noticed but didn't acknowledge it.

„Old friend," he repeated and felt slight diziness taking over him. Why on Earth did he agreed to come here? Was he really that desperate to share a flat with a man who was keeping a skull and calling it an old friend?

„I like to think aloud and I don't want to talk to myself, so I talk to him," Sherlock explained, „but I'm sure it'll be better if I talk to a real person."

„That certainly will." John replied and nodded.

„So you will take the offer?" Sherlock came closer to John and the doctor was sure that if he had a tail he would toss it. In this incarnation he could just give John puppy-eyed sight. The doctor was slightly taken aback by such urgency.

„I…I'll think about it, I haven't decided yet," he tried to answer without saying yes or no. He didn't want to take the offer yet, but he also didn't wish to lose the chance. Sherlock nodded and swiftly moved to sit on the couch.

„There's got to be something," he murmured under his breath and interlaced his fingers in a rather tight grip to stop them from shaking. His eyes were running from nothing to nothing and he tried not to think about the cigarette he had hidden in his bedroom too much. He needed it, his mind was yearning for distraction or blunting and he didn't want to succumb. He was mumbling under his breath, uncoherent thoughts created in his mind and projected into the air. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on something.

John watched the other man with worry. He didn't know him, but there was something wrong with him. John had seen enough people who were addicted to something and he had known withdrawal symptoms all too well. He bit his lip as he recalled all the injured, dying man from the war who were delirious and didn't recognise their surroundings, all those troubled souls trapped in a dying bodies. And they had one thing in common – all the pain and anger that was written all over their faces, their feeling of betrayal when their drug – their life – had been taken from them. When they lost the chance to live. Sherlock resembled those men so much John knelt down in front of him and took Holmes' head between his hands. It didn't matter to him that he barely knew Sherlock. He was a doctor and Sherlock needed his detective's eyes flew open after the touch but he calmed down when he saw John's tranquil but steady expression. They watched each other and the grip of Sherlock's hands loosened. John smiled and the detective returned the gesture.

Right in that moment, Mrs Hudson chose to come in. She knocked but before either of the men – too perplexed by each other – reacted, she was inside, watching them in a rather awkward position. John blushed dark red and immediately stood up to face the woman while Sherlock seemed completely uninterested about the fact that she just caught them doing… well, whatever they could be doing with John kneeling on the floor in front of Sherlock.

„Oh, I'm sorry, Sherlock, I didn't know you were about to bring a friend." She tried not to show her real emotions, but Sherlock knew she couldn't decide whether she felt embarassed, thrilled that she could tell her friends she had seen Sherlock with somebody or disappointed that she didn't see more. A small grin formed on his lips while John tried to move his blood from his cheeks.

„It's alright Mrs Hudson," Sherlock finally stood up and John managed not to turn around to look at him. „This is John Watson, he's gonna rent the flat with me."

John wanted to protest that he hadn't decided yet, but he wasn't given the chance. Mrs Hudson gave him a hand to shake. He took it, completely stunned, and nodded. She smiled and he thought the disaster might be over.

„I'm glad you found somebody to look after you, Sherlock. Honestly, it's been difficult to keep an eye on you." Mrs Hudson went on and didn't pay attention to how awkward John felt. „You have to excuse him, darling, he tends to be orderless, but he's a great man."

„I'm sure he is," John smiled and prayed to all gods he knew for something to distract her from further conversation.

„I've shown Sherlock the second bedroom when he was here, just in case you'd need two bedrooms." Mrs Hudson sounded so enthusiastic that John thought if she hadn't bet with somebody that Sherlock was gay. It certainly looked like that. Then the real meaning of her words hit him. He blushed.

„Of course we will," he snapped maybe too harshly; it was only because of his embarassment though.

„You don't have to fear, darling, I might be old but I'm not judgemental. You actually look quite cute together." She went on and John felt like he was going to faint. Mrs Hudson just said they were a nice couple. They'd known each other for two days. John was just about to say something but both him and the landlady were spared further conversation by Sherlock's phone. The detective fished it out of his pocket and accepted the call.

„Where?" He said almost immediately. John turned to Mrs Hudson with quizzical look and she just sighed and shrugged as if it was totally normal for Sherlock, which it probably was.

„Who's doing the inspection?" The detective asked and moved to look down on the street.

„No way, Anderson's an idiot!" He said so resolutely John almost jumped up. Mrs Hudson gave him a symphatetic smile and left. John sat down into an armchair and rubbed his face. Nobody had ever thought he was a gay, as far as John knew, nobody ever asked and John didn't pay it much attention. He hadn't had much luck with women, but it certainly wasn't for lack of interest from his side. The problem was only in them; they didn't want him. At least that was what he had thought; now after few minutes with Sherlock he was no longer this sure.

„I'm coming," Sherlock said after a long while, „but I'm not gonna work with that idiot. And I'm not gonna go in a police car."

He finished the call and stared from the window for some time before placing the phone into his pocket again. He turned to John with a happy expression. He jumped up in the air and cried out with joy. John watched him with amused smile and waited for explanation for this.

„Fourth one, John! Christmas came sooner!" He cheered and bent down to kiss John on the forehead. John froze under the touch and Sherlock immediately pulled away. They gazed at each other before Sherlock muttered something that could only be understood as: „I've gotta go." The detective fled out of the room without glancing back.

John tried desperately to stop himself from blushing, but the only thing he was capable of doing was to sit there and rub his forehead, the exact spot where Sherlock had kissed him. He sighed and with the realisation he was in a great mess he stood up and went into the kitchen. He ignored all the stuff Sherlock had left on the table and tried to find a clean cup and some tea.

„John!" Sherlock's voice was thrilling. Watson almost sweared – Sherlock had surprised him.

„I thought you were already happy with your murders," he said instead and walked to Sherlock who smirked at him.

„I am perfectly content with them, thank you. But I remembered, you're a doctor right?" Holmes watched John with excitement. John had no idea what that was supposed to mean, but Sherlock's eagerness affected him maybe a bit too much.

„Yeah," he just nodded.

„A war doctor; you've been through a lot, seen lots of suffering and pain," Sherlock went on with thoughtful expression.

„Yeah, I did. Quite enough for a lifetime." John replied. Sherlock looked at him with a look that showed something John couldn't understand.

„Would you like to see more?" he asked.

„You don't even know how much." John answered and stood up before Sherlock could change his mind. They ran down the stairs and even if John didn't know it yet, he had just made a great step of his life.

* * *

_**So they finally meet! Hope you enjoyed the chapter and let me know if you did. If you didn't let me know anyway. :)**_


	6. I'm not a spy

_**Here's another chapter, guys! It's a bit shorter but I wanted this to stand alone. Enjoy and PLEASE let me know what you think of the story so far. **_

* * *

Mycroft Holmes sighed when he received a text from Greg Lestrade. Even though their dinner had ended quite well the night before, he didn't expect the detective to contact him so soon. They weren't the type of people for sending each other meassages when they lived in the same city. They enjoyed each other's company, but they didn't feel any need to bother the other one with short, unfelt messages. So he expected troubles.

_Sherlock came with some man I've never seen before and insists on taking him to a body. His name is John Watson. Who the hell is he?_

Mycroft raised one eyebrow. Greg didn't ask if he knew anything about the mysterious companion of his younger brother, he automatically expected him to find out. Not that it was any problem. It was actually even easier than he had expected since John was a soldier – working for the country it was a piece of cake to find him.

The older Holmes smirked when he ran his eyes down the records about captain John Watson. It left him with several interesting facts and he felt there might be a great opportunity to know more of Sherlock's actions and especially have someone to look after him.

He considered texting back, but he felt too lazy so he just called Greg. The detective didn't answer and Mycroft sighed in frustration. He called for Anthea to give her some instructions about his new _not-an-acquaintance-yet_. She smiled, nodded and turned around to leave.

Mycroft shook his head when he realised he was probably never going to understand his closest subordinate. The good thing about Anthea was that she didn't talk much. Actually sometimes it felt like she wasn't even listening and that annoyed him a bit. She was reliable and there was no need to not keep her. But some more patience wouldn't kill her. His phone rang and he answered it immediately when he saw Greg's name on the screen.

„Hello," he smiled even if nobody could see it.

„Oh, hey, I'm sorry for not answering your call but your brother had one of his crazy deduction moments and you know what he's like; usually at least something he says makes sense but you have to be really careful. Do you need anything or did you just want to hear my voice?" Greg smirked.

„I just wanted to congratulate you, looks like we have a babysitter for Sherlock." Mycroft replied and put his legs on his table.

„Do we? You mean the doctor he's brought over?" Greg asked and looked out of a window to watch John.

„Yeah. He's a former army doctor. I'm gonna see him in a while to see if he's trustworthy, but I think he's perfect." Mycroft looked at his watch.

„Should I be jealous?" Greg asked only to make a joke.

„No, I didn't mean it that way. He's perfect for Sherlock. But you saw him, you know he's handsome." Mycroft retorted.

„Well, you haven't seen him in real." They both laughed.

„I'm planning to do so. See you later," Mycroft stood up and took his umbrella with him.

„Bye," Greg hung up. He smiled for himself before he realised he was solving serial murders.

Mycroft left the room and walked down the stairs. When he was down on the street, he looked around only to notice that Anthea had taken his favourite car. He rolled his eyes and made a mental note to himself to talk to her about it. He opened door of another one and sat on the back seat.

„Where are we going?" the driver asked.

„The old factory," Mycroft said. He didn't need to specify, the factory was one of Mycroft's meeting places. They arived some time before Anthea with John did. Mycroft placed a chair into the middle of the hall and stood few metres from it. He heard the clapping of a cane before he saw either Anthea or John. Then the man appeared.

„Good evening, mr. Watson. It's nice to meet you," Mycroft said and swung his umbrella. For dramatic effect.

„Who are you?" the doctor spat angrily. Anthea just stood as far as possible and did something on her mobile. Mycroft had a suspicion she was playing some silly games but he couldn't prove it.

„It doesn't matter. What matters is who are _you_," Mycroft acted as if he didn't care about John at all, he was still gazing at the point of his umbrella.

„And who am I?" John asked and frowned.

„Don't you want to sit down?" Mycroft pointed to the chair.

„No," John replied, „_thank you_."

„You're a tough one, that's good. That's very good, my dear doctor Watson." Mycroft smirked.

„Look, I've got no idea how you know me but I would really appreciate if you told me who you are." John made few more steps towards Mycroft. Holmes finally turned to face him.

„That is not important. What interests me is that you are obviously willing to cooperate with Sherlock Holmes. I have to warn you he is not easy to put up with." Mycroft said as if he was talking about weather.

„Yeah, tell me something I don't know." John grumbled.

„So you are moving into 221B Baker street? I'm glad to hear that, I am personally interested in Sherlock's well-being. I would have an offer for you in case you-"

„Wait, wait, wait!" John interrupted him. „How do you know Sherlock?"

„My relation to him is not important. But I suppose he would say I am his arch enemy."

„Arch enemy? Yeah, that sounds completely normal. And before you ask, no. I'm not interested in anything you'd offer me." John turned around to walk away.

„How much money do you get from your superannuation? Obviously not as much as you'd need since you have to rent a flat with somebody." Mycroft made a pause. „I can give you twice as much."

„Oh, how generous of you! You tell me you're Sherlock's arch enemy and you expect me to spy on him for you? That's retarded." John hissed back. „Do you think I'm that stupid to fall for it?"

„So loyal and so soon… you impress me. How did he got under your skin so easily? Judging by your records you are not a person who trusts others easily." Mycroft went closer to John to scare him but it didn't work; it only angered him further.

„My records." John growled.

„Yes. You're not making friends easily. In fact I would say you don't have a real friend you would actually trust. Neither of your previous attempts to have a relationship with a woman worked. You're a lone wolf," Mycroft said aloud all John knew too well. He didn't actually need to hear it.

„It's none of your business," John glared at the taller man. Their sights locked into each other and John was determined not to be the one who backed away first.

„It is a lot of my business. I have to warn you – if you expect anything even similar to a relationship from Sherlock Holmes, you'll be disappointed. He doesn't even know what it is." Mycroft sighed as if he regretted that his brother wasn't more experienced in such things.

„I'm not – why does everybody think I want to have sex with him? I just need somebody to pay the other half of rent and I'm glad I've found somebody. That's all. I'm not gay." John's voice trembled a bit at the last sentence and Mycroft noticed it. Doubts. He knew it all too well.

„I assure you I don't care what you plan to do with him. It would only be very helpful if you accepted my offer." Mycroft finally looked away. John smirked for himself.

„Then I'm sorry to disappoint you."

„He's showed you his stage, hasn't he? For others, London is just a city, but not for him, for him it's a battle-field and he is a general. You've seen him work. You admire him, he fascinates you. You want to solve crimes with him." Mycroft gazed at John hard. „You want to feel the war again."

„That's stupid. If you read my records, you know I was wounded in war. I have PTSD and a psychosomatic limp. I'm here to escape the war." John hissed and clutched his right hand inside of his pocket not to punch the man before him in the face.

„No, you're not. You have a tremour in your left hand, but now you're stressed and your hand is perfectly calm. You don't wish to escape the war. You miss it." Mycroft remarked with a victorious smile. John frowned; he had never even thought about this possibility.

„Whatever the truth is, I'm not gonna take your money for spying on Sherlock. Try Anderson, I'm sure he'd be happy to do something against him. Have a nice day." John turned around determined not to turn around.

„Good luck, doctor Watson. I believe we will see each other again," Mycroft called after him. He nodded at Anthea who hid her phone into her pocket and followed John who didn't turn around once. They both got into the same car they used to arive here. She asked him where to go and he thought about it for a while before he told the driver to go to his army-assigned flat. There, he picked up his gun and after a while of hesitation also a small teddy bear. He had had it since he was a child and it was difficult for him to fall asleep without it. He didn't have any sort of relationship with it, but it calmed him down that whatever happened it was with him. It was a small plushy thing that could easily be hidden in his pocket so he could have it with him in the war. He felt a bit ashamed because of it, but he thought it was better to look like he was a child than not being able to fall asleep.

He ran down and got into the car again. He gave the driver his new adress and turned away from Anthea. Even though she was pretty, he wasn't in a mood for flirting at all. He stared out of the window and when they stopped at 221B Baker Street, he immediately jumped out of the car. The last thing he wanted was to be taken away on another meeting with a creepy guy who'd try to intimidate him and make him spy on his new flatmate. He didn't know Sherlock too much, but he knew that this man was even worse in relationships than he was. He was worth the try.

* * *

_**Thanks for reading. :) please write me a review with your opinion! :)**_


	7. The game is on

_**Sorry for the delay with this chapter, I had a bit of a writer's block + real life happened and I just had no time for writing. thanks for reading, i hope you enjoy this chapter. let me know what you think of it or feel free to submit any suggestion. Thank you.**_

„You know, normal people don't have arch-enemies," John pointed out when they drove to the adress Sherlock had sent to the phone of the dead woman which was – as he assumed – in hold of the murderer.

„No? And what do they have?" Sherlock asked and looked so genuinly surprised that John almost believed he didn't know.

„Well, people they care about. Family, friends. Girlfriend or boyfriend…" John let the sentence sound like a question.

„As I said. Boring." Sherlock said without interest. After a while he turned to John and smiled.

„I feel I won't be bored with you," John replied and Sherlock's eyes widened.

„So you will move in with me?" he asked and his face shone as if he was a small child and got a Christmas present he didn't expect.

„I wouldn't put it this way," John said reservedly, „but I'll take the flat."

„Brilliant. So the closest shop is-"

„Wait, what? You wanted me to live in the same flat to do your shopping?" John exclaimed.

„Well, not just shopping. I need somebody to do my laundry, tidy the flat up and feed me. You know, female work." Sherlock smirked.

„Ah that's lovely. I've always wanted to be a wife at home but my parents forced me to be a soldier." John responded and Sherlock stared at him for some time before he burst out laughing.

„John, I already love you," he said between fits of laughter. John didn't know what to say so he just smiled. He felt that this man wasn't laughing too often and definitely wasn't one who would tell everybody he loved them. And even though John didn't feel anything romantic for the man, he sensed there was something greater to happen between them.

They got off the cab and Sherlock led John into a small bistro. They sat down at one table with a good view of the street in front of them. Sherlock sat facing the glass and didn't take his eyes off it and John was left with the chair opposite him. It was a bit strange to sit so close and talk to a person who wasn't looking into his eyes but John didn't expect more.

„Ah, Sherlock, I was wondering if it were you. What can I bring for you and your date?" A rather suspiciously looking man came to their table.

„I'm not his date," John said immediately, but nobody really heard him.

„I don't want anything, do you wanna eat John?" Sherlock turned to him.

„Uh, yeah, whatever," John's brain wasn't working properly. Why did everybody think he was Sherlock's boyfriend?

„You can eat, we'll probably spend hours here," Sherlock encouraged. John gave up and ordered the first thing he saw in the menu. The man left and Sherlock sighed.

„Why does everyone think we're dating?" John asked in low voice.

„I don't know, you have to ask them." Sherlock answered but he didn't give John a single glance.

„Ah, shut it, you have a theory," John hissed.

„Okay. I'm not a very social person. So when they saw me with somebody it surprised them. It would have to be somebody really important to me otherwise I wouldn't spend time with him. A friend? No, friendship is build for a longer time and they've never even heard of you. So somebody I would be completely absorbed by but not a friend. A date." Sherlock said casually and his eyes didn't leave the street.

„Well, that's your deduction. I'm sure this guy or Mrs Hudson didn't think that way." John remarked.

„Of course not, it was subconsious. People's minds tend to choose the most interesting theory." Sherlock finally dropped his eyes off the road.

„So you… don't have a girlfriend?" John asked carefully.

„Girlfriend? Not my area," Sherlock stared out of the window again.

„So you've got a boyfriend?" John didn't know why he asked. He had absolutely no idea.

„No,"

„There's nothing wrong about that." John said a bit too eagerly. Sherlock glared at him.

„I know,"

„So you're single," John summarised, „just like me."

„Actually, John…" Sherlock sighed. „Look, I don't want to hurt you but I've got a relationship. I'm married with my work and that's a full-time relationship."

„No, no! It's fine, I wasn't asking because I – I was just curious." John babbled and he blushed slightly. _There still are divorces_. John's eyes widened. _Why do I even think about this?!_

„So…uhm… you know this guy?" John asked and pointed to the man behind the bar.

„Yeah, I've proved Angelo couldn't commit a murder he was supposed to commit because he was at the time participating in a robbery on other part of the city." Sherlock answered.

„Yeah, he kinda purified my name. Gave me another chance," Angelo felt need to complete the information given by Sherlock. The detective just shrugged. „Anyway, here you are – but wait, I'll bring some candles, it'll be more romantic."

„I'm not his boyfriend," John mumbled but Angelo lit a candle on their table anyway. It gave Sherlock eerie appearance, the light was illuminating the lower part of his face, but his eyes – hidden behind his cheekbones – were dark. John didn't know why he paid so much attention to it so he just ate.

They sat in silence for some time before Sherlock suddenly gave a lurch. John immediately looked up and saw a cab in the street they were observing. They looked at each other and Sherlock stood up immediately and ran out of the building. John threw some money on the table and left, forgetting his cane leant against the wall.

Sherlock could only watch the cab leave and John thought it was over before the detective pressed two fingers against each of his temples and murmured something under his breath. John couldn't differentiate words but he didn't have to.

„John, run!" Sherlock exclaimed suddenly and went in almost opposite direction than the cab. John tried to keep up with him and hoped it wasn't running that was supposed to get Sherlock rid of frustration. They ran through small, narrow streets John had never seen before, over bins and even a roof. When he stood on the edge of it, looking down at where he could fall into and at Sherlock who was waiting on the other side, John thought that maybe it wasn't as good idea as it seemed to find a flatmate.

„John!" Sherlock yelled and went back. He reached his hand towards his new acquiantance as if he could catch him. That made adrenaline rush into John's body again and he jumped up and landed right beside Sherlock.

„Alright?" The detective asked.

„Yeah," John smiled before Sherlock grabbed his wrist and pulled him behind himself. They ran through busy London streets and John felt the best in quite a long time with the polluted air in his lungs and insane man clutching his hand.

After one especially sharp turn they saw a cab. The detective let go of John's hand and sped up. He was already at the cab which had stopped in front of the house Sherlock had been watching. He stopped the car with something that looked like police ID card and went to look at the passenger. He flipped the ID in front of the face of a man who was sun-tanned and completely puzzled as if he was half-asleep.

John reached them and saw there was a great mistake. This man was either a very good actor or he was as guilty as John's socks. Sherlock stared at the man, then he rolled his eyes and let the car go with words: „Welcome in London."

„Well, I didn't put much hope into it anyway," Sherlock sighed but John could see disappointment on his face.

„Look, it could've been coincidence, he might appear…" John said to cheer him up a bit. Sherlock rose his eyes to meet John's sight and smiled broadly.

„Thank you for this," he bowed his head.

„And now, will you explain to me how you got hold of the ID?" John asked as they walked onto a more busy street to get a cab.

„It's Lestrade's," Sherlock said and fished the thing out of his pocket, „I steal them from him when he annoys me. Here, you can keep it, I have dozens of them."

John took the card and watched a familiar face on the photo. Small smile creeped onto his lips and Sherlock saw it before it disappeared.

„I think we should make this clear," a young man sighed and glared at Admiral Hollister who was feeling very insecure. He hoped the latter wouldn't notice, but he did. „I promised to get Sherlock to you. I don't want the other guy to think he got him because he wanted."

„You have to understand," Hollister licked his lips. It was one of his little habits he had when he was nervous. „We have to make Khan think he had gotten his brother as a reward. We had to keep him on his toes to get the best out of him."

„The problem is," the other person gave him a devilish smirk, „that I don't care about your almighty hero. The only thing I want is Sherlock aboard this ship. And you'll get him for me."

The admiral frowned and tried to give him a defiant look. The younger man just made himself even more comfortable and rolled his eyes as if in annoyance. His sight dwelled on the ceiling for a bit longer.

„Shall I remind you why?" He asked and looked straight at Hollister. The admiral paled and cast his eyes down. The latter burst out laughing.

„Oh really? Are you this scared?" he snorted, „You people are so petty. And tiny. It's so funny but with time it gets boring. Sherlock is different. He's smart and he can entertain me; he's just solving a crime I've prepared for him and he's doing quite well."

They looked at each other. Two very different pairs of eyes locked into each other; one young, smart and wicked, the other older, dull and frightened. Jeremy Hollister was that kind of a guy whose major purpose of life was to aim higher and get there without trying too hard. He was so worried he might fail he'd never done anything on his own and if you asked anybody about him, almost nobody would remember him as he was always desperately trying to fit in and obey rules. He only did what he was told to do and that got him the Admiral uniform. Who cared it was an uniform of a secret and almost for sure an illegal army? It was a uniform and it was connected with a rank and Hollister was obssessed with ranks and importance of his person which – as he was convinced – existed somewhere else than just his mind.

„I don't get why you took Khan that day. Sherlock's so much better than him." The young man played with cufflinks on his expensive shirt as he spoke.

„Sherlock is a very intelligent man, but intelligence is not the only quality required in the Baskerville programme. We need soldiers, warriors who are smart to make their own decisions but obedient to follow the rules and respect their superiors. Soldiers with a sense of companionship who would sacrifice themselves to save others. Soldiers who are physically suitable." The admiral was happy for an excuse to let himself talk.

„Nonsense!" The other man hissed. „Tell me what a brilliant man can't do? Not just an intelligent man – because Khan is very intelligent – but a genius like Sherlock. He would be able to beat a world master of box without any knowledge or physical advantage."

„As a soldier I feel a need to object-"

„Shut up. You simply can't accept you've made a mistake." He hissed and stood up. „I only…advise you to do as I asked. You wouldn't keep this pretty life of yours for long if you didn't. Or maybe you might be granted the privilige to see Sherlock working on your family members' deaths. You know just to make you change your mind about him."

„I- I'll do everything. Just let Jane and the children live," Hollister breathed out with panic seeping into his voice.

„That will depend on how Sherlock gets aboard the Botany Bay, Mr Hollister." The youngster acted as if he didn't know about Hollister's rank.

„He will get there. Improved, better and happy." The admiral didn't like being called just by his name, he wasn't used to it anymore.

„No. He's already perfect as he is. I forbid any use of that suspicious treatment on him." The latter snapped and moved himself into a threatening pose.

„But… we can't allow him aboard the ship. He's not strong enough." The admiral tried.

„He is. You have my word. Just make sure his brother doesn't think he can have any credit for getting Sherlock back to him."

„But we need Khan to – "

„Yes, you are very right. You need Khan. I need Sherlock. And unfortunately for you, my wish is more important. So get your lazy little brain to work." The young man put his right leg across his left and loosened up in the chair.

„Why do you want this?" Hollister babbled, more to himself than to the latter.

„Why I want Sherlock? Or what else do you mean?" The younger man pretended he didn't understand the admiral.

„What will you gain from this? Why do you insist that we make Khan think we got his brother here without him trying?" Hollister wiped his forehead with the palm of his right hand.

„If Sherlock thought he was on the Botany Bay because his brother had spectacular reports, it would make him independent on me. He wouldn't know about me." The stranger rolled his eyes. „Can it even be more obvious? Sherlock and I, we are meant to rule. We are supposed to be together because we are better."

„You are what?" Hollister gaped.

„Well, you are an idiot, that's for sure. Sherlock and I are like darkness and light. An angel and a demon. Yin and yang. We are the opposite poles of the world and it needs both of us. And we have to be together." The man's eyes shone with bright light that looked so much like obssession and madness Hollister feared him even more now.

„I can't leave the Earth without him and he can't stay here without me. Our destinies are intertwinned, tangled and shall never separate. We will both be aboard the Botany Bay to govern those who are less than us."

The admiral had absolutely no words for this. The man before him was certainly completely mad. If he was in the Baskerville programme, how did he pass all the medical and psychological tests? If he wasn't how did he know about it and why did he talk like he was certainly leaving for the Space?

„I give you a week. Think of your family whenever a single thought about betraying me comes into your mind." The young one went on and Hollister couldn't say whether he noticed how long the admiral was silent or not.

„Yes. I will." The admiral trembled and he was sweating heavily.

„Thank you. Have a nice day, Mr Hollister," the other went to the door and left. The admiral stared at the chair his visitor had been sitting on only a few moments ago. He couldn't comrehend what was going on but he knew he was in a hell of a problem.


End file.
